Tomorrow. Just a dream? Mes rêves s’élèvent aux Étoiles… the Pyrenees beckon, and our new resident Soothsayer avec Les Massifs Centrales tells us what will transpire à demain. Er, or not. July 17, 2012

“I see… Wiggo, Wiggo, mais…”

Atomic Saddles is proud to introduce a new correspondent to the site, a certain Madame Soutè de Sayeur-à-Cobblers who has looked into his/her crystal balls and divined what will happen on tomorrow’s monumental stage in the Pyrenees. He/she prognosticated, whilst we passed some silver across that crusty gypsy palm of his/hers:

Now then, now then, mes amis. Here’s un idea. On the morrow, the Tour de France is both won and lost. It is won by someone by the name of… peut-être, Brimstone Wigmore. It is lost by everyone else, including qu’est que c’est ça? Vincenco le Twibbly? Cadre Elle-des-Vins? Mais it is cloudy. Like at the summit of des montagnes de ma tête. All is bien et good. But le Froome et un peu mysterieux. Je ne connais rien except le vinquer et un homme de deux wheels circulaire. L’homme who wishes for the past gets le future. With les knòbs on. Zut!

Frankly we have no idea what Madame Cobblers is on about, but here is Saddles’ translation, as best as nous manage (Is that a trois? – Ed).

Bradley Wiggins won Olympic glory on the track in Athens and Beijing. But will fame solely as un pisteur, a track rider alone, will it suffice? Non, we suspect. Bradley is after nothing less than… nous avow, a place en histoire. The Maillot Jaune. Worn on the podium in Paris. By an Englishman. The emphasis is on the histoire.

Tomorrow we will see a different rider. A man with one foot on the pedal of the past, one foot on the pedal of the present, and one foot on the pedal of the future. (You OK Saddles? – Ed)

Wiggo’s angel. BTW, Atomic Saddles read this book not that long after it was published in the late 60s, as it belonged to mon frère and our fellow sweepstakes participant Steve.

So… [predicts Madame Cobblers] Wiggins will explode tomorrow on the Ventoux, breaking away on an individual attack that takes him past Tommy Simpson’s memorial (still a footnote at best for most riders in this tour, but not for les Anglais) in the lead, blowing away Nibali, Evans, everyone. As he passes the cenotaph for his fallen countryman, despite his exertions, he will make a small bow of recognition. And then he will attack further. I don’t know if he still does, but Wiggins used to have Simpson’s picture stuck to his top tube. When everything goes très interessant insane, Bradley is going to have have an angel on his shoulder.

And superman at his side.

Wiggins’ great lieutenant, Chris Froome, (pictured above) will reign himself in, dragging Wiggins up the mountains knowing that his time will not only come but that his name will be also written in the history of the Tour for being ‘the rider who might have won, but chose not to’ (sounds better in French, honest). And will thus get to lead his own team in the future. “Legs and head” they say, is what makes a great rider. And that’s true. But to be a great Tour de France rider you need something else. Passion. Humilty. A little madness. And last but not least, une âme, a soul.

OO cor blimey, I just woke up. Please disregard all of the above, and I think Ms Soutè de Sayeur-à-Cobblers has nicked my wallet. Team Sky to nullify any attacks, all safe over the hill for Bradley Wiggins, it’ll be dead boring all the way to the outskirts of Paris…

Then he’ll fall off hitting Le Manhole sans Pitié…

Or peut-être not. Arf. Enjoy, mes amis… This was a rest day. So why am I staying up until 1.42am scribbling this nonsense? Could it be that I am a little excited?